Harry Potter stared at the scarlet curtains of his four-poster bed, seeing only the blood that had been spilt that night. Spilt because of him. The faces of those who had perished swirled before his eyes; an echo of a laugh still glinting on Fred's face; Remus's ghostly form standing solemn and defeated, never to know his son. A tear crawled down Harry's cheek, a single drop of the ocean of sadness that welled within him, just under the surface.
Faint footsteps reached Harry's ear, and he looked up just in time to see the oak door fly open and the chubby face of Neville Longbottom peer round, anxious.
"Harry?"
He felt too weak to respond, or even acknowledge Neville's question. Instead, he just continued staring blankly into space, willing Neville to leave.
"Are you okay, Harry? I've been looking for you!"
The answer was obvious in Harry's mind. He felt he would never be okay again. Harry's grunted response, however, seemed to convey the opposite to Neville, who decided to continue his interrogation.
"Are Ron and Hermione around? I thought they'd be with you."
Realising that his minimal replies weren't going to quell Neville's curiosity, Harry reluctantly sat up. His mouth was dry as he attempted to speak. Finally, he managed to say, "they're downstairs… with Fred." His voice broke as he said the words and a stream of tears erupted from his green eyes. Neville resisted the urge to run forward and comfort Harry, sensing that this action would not be well received.
"I'll just leave you to it then," said Neville, flopping down on his bed. Subconsciously, he began to hum the tune of the victory chant that Peeves had been bellowing throughout the castle.
Realising that his peace had been permanently shattered, Harry stood up and left the room. He went slowly at first, wandering the corridors of the school which had been filled with screams just hours ago. Passing the Great Hall, he heard the muffled sobs of the bereaved, and glanced the red-headed Weasley family crowded around Fred's body. Despite his longing to join them, he felt that an invisible barrier had been built and that he simply didn't belong there. Not for the first time, Harry wished that his godfather was still alive, to help him through his grief. He was alone.
Draco Malfoy stared glumly at the mass of faces which had invaded the Great Hall. Of all the times he had felt alone at Hogwarts, this was the worst. Staring across the room, he caught sight of the Weasley family, crouched over the body of one of the twins (Draco didn't know which). Despite their grief, he felt a strange pang of envy whilst observing them, knowing that his family could never hold the same levels of affection for one another as the red-headed family across the hall.
His mother was hunched over the lifeless body of Bellatrix Lestrange, yet she shed no tears. Lucius had moved away from them, his eyes haunted: the events of the last year had made his father a shadow of his former self, and the man was now a stranger to Draco. He found himself wondering whether his parents would be engaged in the same activities had he died in the battle, and concluded that they would. Things had changed between them too much, and though Lucius and Narcissa would have grieved the loss of their son it was a different Draco Malfoy they would have been mourning, and all three of them knew this.
It seemed to Draco that his family were invisible, with most people looking straight past them and the few glances that were shot their way beings ones of contempt. Everyone knew them as Death Eaters. Draco squinted down at the ugly mark across his forearm, standing out prominently against his pale skin. It still hadn't faded, despite the death of the wizard who gave it to him, and if anything looked more vivid than ever before, a lasting reminder of the evil that his family had committed.
Seeing the pained expression on her son's face, Narcissa moved forward to embrace him. Yet the touch felt repulsive to Draco, and he quickly shook her off. He didn't need his mother's sympathy, and couldn't help but blame her slightly for the situation he found himself in or for the isolation he felt. Draco looked away from her, and his gaze fell upon the body of his cousin Nymphadora. Suddenly sickened by the injustice of her lonely corpse whilst his mother watched over the remains of his Aunt Bellatrix, Draco felt he had to leave.
People parted as he made his way across the stone floor of the Great Hall, not wanting to even brush past him: Draco Malfoy, the Death Eater. He was alone.
